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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827975">Pulling on a Fragile Thread</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/prisoner_of_conscience/pseuds/prisoner_of_conscience'>prisoner_of_conscience</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bobby SInger - Freeform, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Childhood Trauma, Dean Winchester Has Nightmares, Dean Winchester Remembers Hell, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester is Loved, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Episode: s14e10 Nihilism, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Head Injury, Hell, Hurt Dean Winchester, John Winchester - Freeform, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Mary Winchester - Freeform, Memories, Mind Games, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Sad, Worried Castiel (Supernatural), Worried Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:01:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827975</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/prisoner_of_conscience/pseuds/prisoner_of_conscience</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean suffers head trauma, Sam's worried that his brother has more than a bad concussion. Unable to heal Dean, Cas must venture inside the hunter's mind in order to set things straight. Wading through all of Dean's worst memories, Cas isn't sure if he'll be able to fix the hunter. How has he managed to survive this long? <br/>Rough season 14 timeline. Plenty of worried!protective! Sam and Cas. Nothing but physical and emotional Dean whump. Inspired by Dark Side of the Moon and Nihilism.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>124</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pulling on a Fragile Thread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">John Winchester paid extra for the four-door model of the ‘67 Chevrolet Impala. If he and Mary were gonna have children, easy access to the backseat was going to be crucial; John really did not want to have to climb behind the front bench in order to retrieve a dropped toy, or mop up a spilled drink. As it turned out, John’s prediction was right--the back doors proved useful more times than he could count. Over the years, as Sam and Dean grew older, easy access to the backseat remained important...albeit for very different reasons. Regardless, those back doors had seen a lot of faces over the years. Some familiar, some foreign, some bloody, some beautiful. Some with black eyes, some with green, some with short hair, some with long. A lot of different heads had their turn resting on those seats.</p>
<p class="p1">Currently, the head that rested on the black leather was bleeding profusely. A gash ran from Dean’s hairline down to his left ear and a deep bruising was already forming over his forehead. His left eye was nearly swelled shut and his forehead--in addition to the laceration and the bruising--was forming a decent sized hematoma. The simple fact was that heads weren’t meant to be used as pile-drivers. (Even if Dean’s beloved wrestling had a different opinion). The demi-god decided that playing a game of whack-a-hunter was the best course of defense; Sam stood helpless as he watched Dean’s head get rammed through splintering floorboards. Just shy of unconscious, Dean was now in the backseat blubbering and poking his wounds. Sam, speeding to the bunker, tried to keep his eyes on the road while also reprimanding Dean’s drowsy prodding. Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw that Dean was staring at his bloody fingers with childlike wonderment.</p>
<p class="p1">“Smmmy I’d beee a rreeeeallly g’ood f’nger p’aaaainter.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Dean, stop touching. Just sit still.”</p>
<p class="p1">Completely ignoring his brother’s direction, Dean’s fingers grazed over his swollen forehead and giggled.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sss’ a reeeaaallllyyyy big g’oose e’gg.”</p>
<p class="p4">Worried by his brother’s clear lack of functionality, Sam tried prompting him with questions.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean, do you remember what day it is?”</p>
<p class="p4">“Sstill Mo-nday.”</p>
<p class="p4">Sam nodded, at least that was right.</p>
<p class="p4">“You know your birthday?”</p>
<p class="p4">“M-may s-econd.”</p>
<p class="p4">Sam’s face fell.</p>
<p class="p4">“<em>Your </em>birthday, Dean.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sam looked over his shoulder, yet again, and saw Dean’s face crumpled; from pain, disappointment, or confusion--he wasn’t sure. Sam’s speed increased and he made a silent prayer to Cas--hoping he was at the bunker, and would be able to help. It occurred to Sam briefly that Dean’s incoherent ramblings would be entertaining if the cause was anything besides physical trauma. Dean drunk off his ass gabbing about finger painting would be entertaining--not terrifying. Sam had a new appreciation for how Dean must have felt when he had taken on the trials; barely lucid enough to hold a conversation with, he must have seemed frighteningly incapacitated. Interrupting Sam’s memories was the garbled, slurred voice from the backseat.</p>
<p class="p4">“Smmmy? You ‘member the t-time M’om t’ook ussss to I-owa s-state f-fair and y-ou got… …” Dean struggled to generate the words. “The p’ink c-cloud stuck in your ha-ir?”</p>
<p class="p1">Sam wanted to laugh at the memory of the cotton candy disaster. But he couldn’t. For so many reasons. First of all, Dean couldn’t remember the words for cotton candy. Second, and most worrisome, was the obvious fact that Mom hadn’t been there. How could she have been? Timidly wading into deeper, more dangerous waters, Sam attempted to gauge Dean’s condition.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean? What were we doing earlier? When you hit your head?”</p>
<p class="p4">Dean was quiet for a minute--clearly thinking.</p>
<p class="p4">“We were f’ghting a s-shifter.”</p>
<p class="p4">Sam went silent for a moment as he processed the information.</p>
<p class="p4">They killed the shifter late last month.</p>
<p class="p4">It was three hunts and five states ago.</p>
<p class="p4">Sam drove faster.</p>
<p class="p5">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p6"> </p>
<p class="p4">Before attempting to lug 190 pounds of Dean into the bunker alone, Sam pleaded loudly for any kind of assistance, should anyone be home and in earshot. Appearing instantaneously, Cas looked on with concern.</p>
<p class="p4">“Angel radio was overwhelming me...I’m sorry I didn’t--”</p>
<p class="p4">Sam, with no concern for apologies, cut Cas off.</p>
<p class="p4">“Just help me get him inside.”</p>
<p class="p4">“What happened?”</p>
<p class="p4">“Everything went wrong...I was too far away and--”</p>
<p class="p4">“Sam.”</p>
<p class="p4">“It’s his head, Cas. It’s really bad.”</p>
<p class="p1">With that, the two men lumberingly managed to move Dean inside. The injured man was still conscious, but far from lucid. Babbling unintelligible words and phrases, the hunter was so very clearly broken. For the first time, Sam considered that Cas wouldn’t be able to make this better. Sam’s Wall had been beyond repair...Michael’s possession had left Dean impervious to Cas’ grace...what if this was somehow the same?</p>
<p class="p1">Draping Dean on the infirmary bed, Sam gently reached for his brother’s face, placing his palm on the uninjured right cheek. Gently widening one eyelid, Sam attempted to judge the size of Dean’s pupil. Comparing it to Dean’s left eye, Sam was sickened to observe that the two did not look remotely equal. Coming out of a foggy state due to the physical contact, Dean launched into a suddenly violent episode of panic.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ssss’wrong ‘th myyy e’yes?”</p>
<p class="p1">“You have a concussion. A really bad concussion. Dean--”</p>
<p class="p4">Before Sam could finish, Dean fought against Sam’s grip and tried racing to the bathroom. Afraid he was going to throw up, Sam let him go but followed immediately behind. Cas gave Sam room to work with Dean and stood back though worry marred his face. Clumsily leaning on the sink, staring into the mirror, Dean blinked rapidly and tried shaking his head.</p>
<p class="p4">“Hey hey hey hey stop! Dean, stop!”</p>
<p class="p4">The older brother whispered scared mumblings and violently tried swatting at the mirror in front of him. Sam threw up his hands in mock surrender and gently talked Dean down.</p>
<p class="p4">“It’s me. Cas is in the other room and he’s gonna look at you, ok? You’re gonna be fine you just got a good knock on the head, ok? Just come with me, it’ll be fine.”</p>
<p class="p4">“C’an’t come. ‘M not safe.”</p>
<p class="p4">“You’re safe. Dean, I promise. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”</p>
<p class="p4">“Y-ou’re not safe. S’mmmy g-go ‘way.”</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean, it’s fine. We’re all fine. Just come with me, man. Please.”</p>
<p class="p4">“My e’eyes, s’mmmy.”</p>
<p class="p4">“Your eyes will go back to normal, I promise. You’ll feel better.”</p>
<p class="p4">“Nooo..” Dean paused and took a hiccuping breath. “S’ammy my e’yes are b-black.”</p>
<p class="p5">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p1">Dean was shouting pleas and curses as he batted away Cas’ attempts at healing. Fear flashed in the hunter’s eyes and Cas recognized the face--it was the face he’d made as Cas beat him. Cas’ vivid recollection of how Naomi had him under her control replayed: he’d broken Dean’s arm...nearly killed him. Dean’s expression in that moment had been petrified in Cas’ memory--amemory that was now painfully repeating. Sam tried to diffuse the growing violence of the situation by attempting to guide Dean back to the infirmary bed.</p>
<p class="p4">“Hey! Dean! Listen! It’s just Cas. And it’s me. Sam. You’re safe.”</p>
<p class="p4">Dean calmed long enough for Sam to guide him into a sitting position but Dean’s wandering eyes looked around the room--searching for something intangible.</p>
<p class="p4">“Wh’rrsss P’amela?” Dean slurred.</p>
<p class="p4">“Pamela?” Sam questioned.</p>
<p class="p1">Psychic Pamela? The same Pamela that had been dead for years? Sam took a moment to piece together Dean’s fragmented thoughts.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Mom, Pamela, demon eyes, scared of Cas…</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">Dean was drifting in and out of memory, time, place...Sam knew his brother’s mind was drowning in a sea of mistaken identities, ghosts, demons, alternate realities, trauma, pain, and even simple chronology. A couple of solid thwacks to the head and all that was Dean Winchester was threatening to unravel. Sam knew from time spent in multiple realities, hallucinations and grief, that one could so easily and so completely lose track of themselves. His demon blood detox alone had proven that the mind is fragile, say nothing of his Wall.</p>
<p class="p1">Sam was sure that if Dean had even one memory out of place, he wouldn’t be the same. What if Mom really <em>had </em>taken them to the Iowa state fair? What if Sam had stayed at Stanford? What if Cas had never been pulled from Naomi’s control? What if Pamela hadn’t died? What if Dean had stayed a demon? All these scenarios were possibilities in Dean’s current state. Sam could do next to nothing as he watched his heavily concussed brother titter on the edge of insanity. It occurred to Sam that he was overreacting. So Dean had a bad head injury...they’d happened before. But as Sam remembered the day from a few years ago--the day he watched Dean lose his memories--he was reminded that any physical injury was kinder than forgetting. At least with the body, if you die, you still die as <em>you.</em></p>
<p class="p4">“Sam--”</p>
<p class="p4">At the tone of the angel’s voice, Sam snapped out of his internal monologue and stepped away from Dean.</p>
<p class="p4">“I need to look inside his head--”</p>
<p class="p4">“Can you heal him?”</p>
<p class="p4">“I can’t do anything until I know what’s going on.”</p>
<p class="p4">“Whatever you have to do, just fix him.”</p>
<p class="p1">Cas approached the bed and was relieved to note that Dean had calmed down--that he no longer looked at Cas with fear and disappointment. While Dean’s eyes showed no signs of his previous anger, they were far from content. They were still green--still human--but his left pupil had been blown so badly, his eye’s vivid coloring had been shadowed by blackness. Placing his fingers on Dean’s swollen forehead, Cas glimpsed the chaos inside Dean’s mind.</p>
<p class="p1">Cas knew (after centuries on Earth), that the human mind--despite its fragility--was capable of maintaining many consciousnesses at any given time. Cas felt that Dean’s essence had been divided into dozens of parts. Dean was living dozens of different lives in his own head and his brain had lost sight of which ones were real. Even if Dean was not conscious of the one, true reality that made up his life, it was still there. It was in him somewhere.</p>
<p class="p1">All the spheres of the mind are generated from one foundation...all spokes connect to one center. One wheel. The beating Dean had taken bent and reordered the spokes--his memories--all that made him who he was. Hypothetically, all Cas had to do was find the center of the wheel and re-anchor the spokes...preferably in the right order. <em>Only that. </em>Cas internally rolled his eyes at the absurdity of his task. How in his father’s name was he supposed to sift through <em>everything? </em>It was beyond finding a needle in a haystack...it was beyond finding a needle in a pile of fake needles...it was like sifting through a haystack, pulling out straws that came from the same bale. How was Cas supposed to find Dean’s essence? Cas had seen, firsthand, the pain and trauma of Dean’s life. That was only the past ten years. How much more was there--things Cas could never even know? He explained the situation as best he could to Sam and naturally the younger brother had agreed to attempt anything that might help. Despite his concerns, Cas proceeded and willed Dean into unconsciousness.</p>
<p class="p1">Suddenly, rather than standing in the bland bunker, Cas stood amongst fire and brimstone, bone and blood, guts without glory. He observed Plato’s perfect forms of pain and suffering.</p>
<p class="p1">Hell.</p>
<p class="p4">It was even worse than he’d remembered.</p>
<p class="p4">And he’d remembered it vividly.</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>Cas and the rest of his garrison had brutally trekked through miles and miles of the pit. Millions of souls suspended and tied and pressed and strung and flattened and poked and prodded and burned and sliced and starved and whipped, only to be made whole again. Laying siege to Hell had been a devastatingly burdensome task.</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Cas had been a soldier--one so used to destruction--but the sheer number of angels obliterated was enough to spark grief. The images hadn’t left his head, even after all this time. </em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>Feathers plucked brutally from wings… angels left to scream in tremendous agony...grace seeping out, slowly draining them of life…</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em> Yet the horrendous fate of the celestial beings was nothing compared to the fate of the humans. After observing the torture of hundreds of thousands of human souls, Cas remembered thinking that even if they </em>
  <b>
    <em>did </em>
  </b>
  <em>make it to Dean Winchester in time there would be nothing left to resurrect. Despite his doubts, Castiel had fought his way there--after all, it was his holy charge...</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>To raise the righteous man, lest he shed blood in Hell.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Finding the man too late was not a shock to the angel; he was God’s creation, sure, but oh how fragile they were as a species. It was already impressive how much the mere human had endured--to have expected more would have been borderline blasphemous. Ponderances aside, Cas had gripped the martyr and freed him from Alistair’s subjection. The angel’s grace had burned the poor vessel, but Castiel felt, for the first time, why God revered the human soul. Cas had lived on Earth for millennia...had his own fair share of vessels...but </em>
  <span class="s1">
    <em>this</em>
  </span>
  <em> was...it was...Cas didn’t have a vocabulary for a feeling so primal--no--</em>
  <b>
    <em>divine.</em>
  </b>
  <em> Dean’s soul was beyond shredded. It was hacked and carved and gutted and on the verge of disintegration. And yet, it was stunningly whole. How could something so broken be so absolute? So resilient? </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">Since then, those questions have been more than answered and Cas remembers his ignorance with a kind of humor. It was almost humorous how much he didn’t understand about the human condition. Well--about the Winchester condition.</p>
<p class="p1">Introspection aside, there was nothing funny about the current situation.</p>
<p class="p1">Dean was on the brink of losing his wholeness and Cas was not going to let him slip away so easily--not after all they’d been through. So Cas waded deeper into Dean’s memories of Hell in hopes that there would be something that the angel could set right.</p>
<p class="p1">Lightning cracked continuously--a yellow blaze resembling the manner of a demon’s death.</p>
<p class="p1">The sound of sharpening hooks grew louder every minute.</p>
<p class="p1">Sam’s voice crackled like static in the air. “<em>You’re just like Dad, Dean--you’re stuck in hell. Forever. I’m glad, though, I’ve gotta say. Kind of relieved, actually. It’s what you deserve. After Mom and Jessica...Dad...you know it’s all your fault, right? I mean you had </em><b><em>one job, </em></b><em>Dean. One job. And yet you managed to screw up not only your life, but everyone’s. I wake up every morning happy that I don’t have to slap a smile on my face and parade around pretending to care about you. You’re a freak, Dean. Everyone leaves you. And Hell won’t have to wait long before you become a demon. You’re already a monster. You’ve been a monster since the day you showed up on my doorstep and dragged me back into your life.”</em></p>
<p class="p1">Amidst the barrage of invented-abuse, there was equal physical pain. The sound of ribs cracking played on a loop, and the wet squish of wringing guts was loud enough to make Cas swallow thickly. The pungent odor of churning metal permeated the stale air...undoubtedly a result of iron rods being heated to brand skin. And the smell of cooking flesh wafted in the cutting wind. All the while, Dean’s cries radiated from somewhere. Cas knew that this memory was merely an echo--Dean wasn’t really here. But that didn’t change the fact that he had to trudge through the hunter’s memories until he found the one where Dean was trapped--</p>
<p class="p1">The center of the wheel.</p>
<p class="p1">Moving towards the screams, Cas tried calling out to Dean though he was sure it would do him no good. Growing closer and closer to the sound’s origin, Cas noticed Dean’s necklace dangling from a blood-dipped spike. Looking at it with a tangled brow, Cas wondered if human memory worked the same way Heaven did; maybe there was always something out of place--something that would lead him out. Taking a non-ironic leap of faith, Castiel picked up the necklace.</p>
<p class="p1">The screams silenced.</p>
<p class="p1">The smell faded.</p>
<p class="p1">The lightning fizzled away. … …</p>
<p class="p1">A soft rain began falling and as the light faded, Cas had trouble making out his surroundings. It appeared to be a motel parking lot with flicking neon lights indicating vacancy. Turning his head in an effort to gain more context, Cas saw the distinctive hood of the Impala, though there was something different about the car. There was a dent in the passenger door to start, and Cas knew that Dean would have never allowed Baby out in the world in anything less than perfect condition. Perhaps then, Dean was not the current owner. As shapes began to emerge, Cas saw a boy sitting on the curb with his head in his hands. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that the boy was, in fact, Dean. Freckles dotted his face and his hair was a bit unkempt, but it was most certainly the Winchester. Cas had no way of knowing what this memory was, but he was about to be witness to it. John barreled out of a nearby motel room and Dean stood to attention. His body may have been serving itself up for degradation and punishment, but Cas saw that Dean’s soul was cowering from the coarse man. Pacing parallel to the curb, John didn’t look at Dean as he thundered through a litany of Dean’s wrongdoings.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“Goddamnit, Dean! You’re sixteen years old and I can’t leave you for a weekend? Do you know how lucky you are that the school board is willing to let it go? One fuckking weekend, Dean. One weekend I leave you and you break into the school? Try to get down some girl’s pants?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“Dad, I didn’t--”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“No, you don’t get to talk.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>It was clear John believed that Dean may have had a reasonable excuse, but the reality was, he didn’t care. </em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“You get drunk, break into the school, hook up, get busted, and all the while Sam’s here, alone. Do you know what could have happened to him, Dean?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“I’m sorry, Sir.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“I didn’t ask if you were sorry, Dean. I asked if you know what could have happened to him.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em> “Yes. I know.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“What, then?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>Dean looked at John with puzzled eyes before realizing what Dad was asking him to do.</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">Cas sighed empathetically, wishing desperately that he could intervene. He watched helplessly as young Dean swallowed dryly and tried separating his emotions from what he was about to say.</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“He could have been hurt. Someone or something could have taken him.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“And?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“He could have been killed.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“He’s 11 years old, Dean. And you left him alone, unprotected. If something happened it would have been on your watch and I would have never forgiven you, you understand me?</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“Yes, Sir.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">Cas knew that Dean had something to add--something he hadn’t said, but a thought that had haunted him ever since:</p>
<p class="p1">‘It wouldn’t matter if Dad never forgave me. I’d have never forgiven myself.’</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>John took a breath and took a minute before doling out his punishment. </em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“You’re going to Uncle Bobby’s in the morning and I’m not picking you up until you’ve sorted out your priorities.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>Dean’s face fell and he couldn’t help but protest.</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“Dad, Sam’s birthday is--”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“If you can’t protect him you don’t get to celebrate with him either.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“I promised Sammy that we’d--”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“Well you promised me you’d look after him. So I guess you’ll just have to break one more promise.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>Dean didn’t respond and John finished the argument with one vulgar, final jab.</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“I swear to God you better not have gotten that girl pregnant…”</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“No, Sir.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>At Dean’s confirmation, John disappeared back into the room and Dean sat back down on the curb.</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">Cas was overwhelmed by a static of thought that filled his head like angel radio; it was Dean’s thoughts acting as a valence surrounding the memory. The mental projection consisted of anger at Dad, a little sadness about not having Mom, and a fear of Uncle Bobby’s cooking. Dominating, however, was a raw anguish about deserting Sammy...on his birthday, no less. Dean was never gonna be like Dad...he was <em>always</em>gonna be there for Sammy when it counted. And Dad was...Dad was taking that away from him--forcing Dean to break his one, absolute, law: never let Sam down. Observing the childhood memory, Cas came to realize how similar he and Dean were; Cas’ Father had prevented him from protecting the very race He commanded be coveted, and Dean’s father was preventing him from safeguarding the very person Dean was devoted to saving.</p>
<p class="p1">While a painful recollection, it was clear that this wasn’t the lynch-pin. Cas attempted to look for a kink that would lead him to the next memory but couldn’t find anything out of place. Sitting on the curb beside teenage Dean, Cas wanted desperately to assure him that things would be okay. But they wouldn’t be. Cas knew that all too well. Besides, this was merely a phantom Dean...incapable of recognizing Cas’ presence. Sniffling beside him, the young hunter pulled a white scrap of paper from his jean’s pocket and uncrumpled it, revealing smudged ink.</p>
<p class="p8">
  <strong>
    <em>Your lips are great for smiling at me in history. Are they good for anything else? </em>
  </strong>
  <strong>
    <em>Meet me by the flagpole at<span class="s2">10</span>.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p class="p8">
  <strong>
    <em>-Courtney</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p class="p7"> </p>
<p class="p1">Granted, Cas had not been well-versed in the subtleties of human courting, but he was still confident that the note suggested something positive in nature. Disproving Cas’ analysis, Dean shredded the note and stood to violently kick the curb. Static flooded once again, and Cas’ head was filled with missing pieces of information.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Dean had arrived at the school flagpole not a minute late. He was biting his cheeks to keep from grinning too eagerly. A red-haired girl sat on a stone bench, bottle in hand. Dean called out a greeting but instead of turning to face him, a gaggle of other teens emerged from various hiding places. Cruel laughter resounded in the warm April air and Dean stopped walking abruptly. </em>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“He actually came. No. Fucking. Way.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>One of the taller boys smirked and reached out his hand to collect money from the disappointed speaker. The red-haired girl, presumably Courtney, turned to stare at Dean. Her voice was hard to make out through the cacophony of laughter but Cas still heard her, clear as a bell. </em>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>“I’m sorry...I thought you’d know it was a joke.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>A different boy hollered from further back.</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“He’s a freak, Court...of course he didn’t know it was a joke. Probably brought a condom and everything.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">The barrage of mockery faded as the memory returned to the motel parking lot. Dean took a deep breath of composure before stalking back into the motel room.</p>
<p class="p1">Cas wasn’t adept enough to understand the gravity of the moment, but he was more than aware that it was distressing. Knowing there was nothing to be done, he continued his search for a way to the next memory. Noting once again the dent in the front door of the Impala, he considered that it may not have been a sign of John’s carelessness. Using his strength to correct the depression, light returned and the scene changed.</p>
<p class="p4">Unlike the previous remembrances, the new display was in shambles. Rather than clear shapes and stark colors, this scene more closely resembled a pixelated, blanched image. It was certainly a home--Cas was convinced he was standing in a living room, though furniture appeared to be missing and several windows looked out over a blank whiteness. A Beatles song played in the background (at least Cas thought it was the Beatles...he wasn’t confident enough to bet on it.) A small child poked his head outside a room upstairs and the sound of a baby crying floated down the staircase.</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>“Mommy?”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">The small voice barely had enough power to reach the lower level.</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>“Mommy...Sammy’s crying…”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">The house was still--no figure emerging to help small Dean.</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>“Mommy I don’t know what to do.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">Dean small’s form started carefully creeping down the stairs in an effort to find an adult. When he reached the bottom step, a strong gust surged through the empty room and a foggy image formed. It was Mary, but she was fading like a dimming light. She tried speaking but her voice cut out too many times for any meaning to be understood. Cas recognized that Dean’s memories of his mother were almost gone. The blows to his head had not only disrupted his chronology, but they had also knocked out some memories entirely. Then, without warning, Mary’s figure dissipated entirely, and the walls eroded. The only part of the memory left was four-year-old Dean holding a still-crying Sam. In so many ways, the few remaining memories of Mary were a reminder that Dean had not always been alone. Now, she was gone and all Dean would remember--forever--was that he’d only ever existed as a precautionary measure...he only existed to keep Sam safe. Approaching the little Winchesters, Cas could no longer resist talking to Dean--he didn’t care if his pleas fell on deaf ears.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dean, I promise I will make this right.”</p>
<p class="p4">With his simple assurance spoken, Cas lightly placed two fingers on Sam’s reddened forehead and his cries stopped.</p>
<p class="p4">Different cries replaced them.</p>
<p class="p5">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p6"> </p>
<p class="p1">It had never occurred to Castiel that Sam and Dean had watched their father die. He’d heard the story in passing over the years, and on more than one occasion he’d gotten glimpses of the fateful day whilst rooting around the brothers’ minds. Now, however, everything was tangible. White hospital sheets were so bright it was as if they were giving off light. Dean’s parlor was frightening and Cas wished he could heal the ragged stitching on his forehead. While Dean had been restored to health (and to life), he could not have looked more dead. Sam’s shadow was still in the doorway as a tear cascaded down Dean’s cheek.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>“Sam, you gotta call Bobby.” </em>
</p>
<p class="p4">Dean’s voice was nothing but business and Sam’s reddened face didn’t question the request. The younger boy left, leaving Dean alone in the hospital bed. Staring at the wall, Dean took on an expressionless face. Barely a whisper, his voice broke the silence of the room.</p>
<p class="p4">“<em>Dad...Dad are you there?”</em></p>
<p class="p4">Nothing.</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>“Dad I was a ghost about half an hour ago and now you’re dead…Even for us this is pretty crazy.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">He took a breath</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>“Please tell me you’re here.”</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">Being met with nothingness yet again, a small part of Dean accepted that his father was in fact, really gone. Overwhelmed and slipping into shock, Dean lurched forward and tried twisting himself over the bed as waves of nausea hit him. Having nothing to expel, his stomach contracted violently in vain.</p>
<p class="p1">Suddenly, the room dimmed and sounds faded. Memories of John came to Cas as static and he watched a highlight reel of John’s life through Dean’s eyes. Baseball in the backyard, kissing Mary in the kitchen, singing theme songs to Sammy, teaching Dean to shoot bottles off a fence, cheering at third-rate wrestling matches, buying Dean a Mississippi Mud Pie for his 10th birthday because he’d never tried it. And then, as if there was a glitch, the entire memory began shaking; Cas worried that Dean’s health was deteriorating more rapidly than he’d predicted. Instead, though, it was as if the radio station changed, and suddenly Cas was watching different memories playback. It was still a hospital, but it was clearly a different location. Flashing before him was a different set of memories though they were transmitted with the same heartbreak. It was Bobby. Bobby threw a football to Dean in a green park, he said that Dean was smart to turn off the lamp before changing the lightbulb, he told Dean that he’d watch Sam so the older boy could watch the new episode of Thundercats… The flashes went on and on and cycled back and forth between Dean’s two fathers. Both dead. Both gone. Cas was overwhelmed with his pain. Dean always had Sam--that’s what the hunter had always told himself. But a part of him--a big part of him--also wanted, desperately, for Sam to abandon him. Sam, old, and fat, and married, and grey-haired was Dean’s happiest ending and he knew that it would never happen if Dean was in his life. As a result, Dean had put more stock in his relationships with John and Bobby than he’d ever intended to. Now, that unintended investment was destroying him. No number of blows to the Impala would piece him back together...no number of flask refills...no messages left to a long-filled voicemail.</p>
<p class="p1">Cas was concerned, deeply, that there seemed to be no end in sight. The memories spilled into one another without pause, without hesitation, and without any indication of slowing. There was so much pain inside of Dean and if all of it had to be waded through before Dean could be healed, then Sam would be waiting an eternity to get his brother back. It was beyond painful for the angel to be a passive observer of how Dean saw himself. So much of his identity had been built on trauma--on pure survival. Only a few rules governed Dean’s entire life and all of them--by some twisted fate--had been broken. Cas needed to assure Dean--the real Dean--that he was not merely an instrument. He was worthy. He was loved. He was valued--not only for what he could do, but for who he was. Cas needed Dean to see himself the way he did. But Cas wasn’t in control here. There was nothing he could do but continue to move forward until he encountered Dean’s true consciousness. In order to do that, he had to continue existing in Dean’s nightmare, inspecting the memory for falsities. Under Dean’s shirt, on his shoulder, Cas spotted a glimpse of a scar. Cas didn’t need to see it fully to know it was the one his own grip had left; of course,<em> this</em> Dean-- in this time-- shouldn’t have been marked yet. Perhaps it was Dean’s subconscious desperately trying to be saved--perhaps Dean wished that Cas could have saved him from <em>this </em>hell instead. Approaching the broken hunter, Cas gripped the man’s shoulder yet again, and the memory spiraled into chaos.</p>
<p class="p9">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p4">Cas was staring at himself; his vessel bloody and broken and lying prone on the bunker floor. Dean’s stained grey shirt was just disappearing down the few steps leading out of the library. Cas’ own memories of the flight occupied his head as much as Dean’s did; he’d begged his friend to stop, to rest, to reconsider. But the Mark of Cain knew no limitations, knew no control, no restraint, and no logic. It was worse than any addiction or disease--it was a genetic need to kill. Despite the best efforts of Sam and the angel, Dean had fallen victim to the primordial evil and his ever-present morality was decaying at an impossibly fast rate. Cas, in this memory, was somehow accosted with a crippling affliction and he felt his grace surge with a desire for violence. His arm ached with a heavy weight and his senses dulled in response to his suddenly pounding heartbeat. His mouth went dry and he became increasingly aware of his blood flow--he suddenly felt the surge in every vein and artery--an internal current driving him towards brutality. A high washed over him--not unlike the one he’d experienced as makeshift God--and he feared, more than anything, the pain of coming down from that high. The realization dawned on Cas that Dean’s subconscious, perhaps as a way of communicating with the angel, had imbued the heavenly being with the burden of the Mark. This was how Dean felt. Intoxicated, high, overstimulated, debilitated, deprived, and desperate. As if that wasn’t enough, he felt such tremendous shame. While Cas was still in the bunker, images flashed around him: the Stein family massacre, Charlie’s crippled body, Claire’s look of horror, Sam’s disappointed stare, Crowley’s smug grin, Cain’s foreboding figure… and in an instant the images were gone and Dean was standing before him with black eyes. The hunter blinked rapidly and sank to his knees as his eyes flickered between emerald and onyx.</p>
<p class="p4">“Not again, not again, not again, not again….Sam...Sam! Sammy...please.”</p>
<p class="p4">Dean, paralyzed by fear, uttered the mantra over and over, his fists pounding the bunker floor.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean! Dean you need to listen to me! I won’t go along with this anymore. Dean!”</p>
<p class="p4">The broken man didn’t respond to, or acknowledge the angel in any way. Ignoring the futile nature of his effort, Cas dropped to the floor in front of Dean and continued pleading.</p>
<p class="p4">“I refuse to go along with this anymore. I will not <em>stand here </em>and watch you punish yourself. I didn’t fall from Heaven so that Dean Winchester could be defeated by a blow to the head. You are <em>not </em>defined by what has happened to you, Dean; you are defined by how you’ve handled yourself <em>amidst</em> all that has happened. You have beared burdens too great for even angels to carry. You have retained your humanity and your compassion and your humor and your love. You’ve shared that with Sam...you <em>gave </em>that to Sam. You <em>taught </em>him that giving up and walking away is never a solution. It’s time to embody your sermons, Dean.”</p>
<p class="p4">At the charmingly incorrect phrase, the room was filled with a kind of static and for a second, Dean’s eyes met Cas.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sam is waiting for you, Dean. He needs you to come out of this in one piece and he is relying on the both of us to give that to him. You’ve taken care of Sam your entire life, and right now the only way to take care of him is to forgive yourself. Please.”</p>
<p class="p4">The angel rolled his eyes, remembering.</p>
<p class="p4">“It’s time to <em>practice </em>what you <em>preach</em>.”</p>
<p class="p4">Then, without having found an imperfection, the memory faded and a new one emerged; it was as if Dean was trying to nudge him in the right direction.</p>
<p class="p4"><em>At least, </em>Cas thought, <em>this is progress. </em></p>
<p class="p5">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p6">
  <em>“Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you. Just open the door … Come back here. Dean! Let me out of here! Dean! Let me out of here! Let me out! Dean! … Don't. No, no, don't. Don't, don't. No—stop! Stop! Alastair—please. Please … No. No. God, no! Please! Please, please. God! Dean!”</em>
</p>
<p class="p4">Sam’s cries reverberated off the metal silo that was Bobby’s panic room. Dean leaned against a nearby door, drink in hand. Closing his eyes and lifting his chin, the hunter took a moment to himself before exiting. Cas followed Dean to the abandoned lot where he watched the taller man do what he never does: beg. Dean asked for help. Not help from Bobby or Cas...but from the universe. From God. From whomever would listen--from whomever was willing. Though his plea went unanswered, Dean continued to pour his soul into his silent prayer.</p>
<p class="p4">
  <em>I’ve tried. My God I’ve tried. So hard. My entire life. I’ve tried to keep him safe. And I tried to make sure that he--that he had a life. A real life. And it wasn’t perfect--I couldn’t make it perfect for him. But I fed him, and I taught him, and I listened to him, and I told him that Dad loved us. I made sure he knew Dad loved him even if the old man couldn't say it himself. God, I gave him everything I wanted. Everything I wish I had. And it just wasn’t enough. Look at him. I locked him in there and he’s-- -- I never should have even tried. There was never any point. </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>But I need him. Even if it was all for nothing, I still need him to be okay. So you get your ass down here--I don’t care what you are--and fix. my. brother. </em>
</p>
<p class="p9">
  <em>Please. </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">With a nod of his head and a pout of his lips, Dean’s rough hand ran over his face and he took a deep breath of composure. Steeling up, he sniffled a final time before heading back inside.</p>
<p class="p1">Despite his emotional stamina, Cas’ resolve was quickly fading. The longer it took him to get to Dean, the higher the risk that he’d be damaged for good. The angel was struggling to witness all the pain and suffering embodied in the man without losing hope. What was Cas supposed to do? Restore Dean’s mental health to its normal, damaged state? It was a miracle that this man was functional at all, let alone a <em>highly </em>functioning <em>soldier, brother, friend, hunter, </em>and<em> hero. </em>Cas wanted nothing more than to erase and rewrite Dean’s past. How much happier could he make him? But Castiel knew that the slightest bit of intervention would wreck the man he knew so well. One memory altered, one insult unheard, one evening without nightmares...all would result in Dean’s demise. The sad truth is that Dean is only able to do what he does because of his pain. Sam once told Cas that Dean thrives on trauma--as difficult as it was to accept, Cas saw the statement’s proof before him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dean, if you can hear me, please keep fighting.”</p>
<p class="p4">Taking a chance, Castiel touched the angel banishment sigil on the outside of the panic room door.</p>
<p class="p1">Overwhelmed by his new surroundings, Cas was desperate to escape the confines of a metal coffin.</p>
<p class="p4">He was drowning in a Ma’lak box.</p>
<p class="p4">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p3"> </p>
<p class="p4">As the panic rose in him, Cas attempted to calm himself by remembering that this was merely a fabrication. He tried to focus on the fact that going from by-stander to participant in Dean’s nightmare meant that he was most likely approaching the epicenter. He thought back to the time he’d found Dean dangerously ill from smiting sickness. Perhaps this was a similar concept...the closer to the site, the worse things got. Maybe <em>living </em>Dean’s memories was the final step before finding Dean’s true consciousness. Then again, it seemed just as likely that there was no logic to the chaos; the only reason Cas was there in the first place was because Dean’s mentality had been dismantled. There was a good chance that this was a logicless place, filled with nothing but torturous fates to live over and over and over again. Either way, Castiel had no control over the rising water line. Reaching his head, the water enveloped the angel and new sounds emerged. Though distant and muted, Cas heard distant conversations.</p>
<p class="p4">It was Michael.</p>
<p class="p4">Michael creating monsters, Michael killing people, Michael telling Sam that Dean was gone and buried. And then, through the water, Cas heard Dean’s cries. He was screaming for Sam, for freedom, for air, for Michael’s expulsion… All the while his lungs ached with a need for oxygen, his limbs felt cold and disembodied under the water, and the fear of death instinctually crippled his being. Cas, unable to remain helpless any longer, placed his hand on the roof of the box; the water glowed a bright blue as his grace blasted through the coffin.</p>
<p class="p4">Cas was desperate. He couldn’t wait to stumble upon Dean, he needed to find him by force.</p>
<p class="p4">Castiel’s authority seemed to be surprisingly well-received and as water drained from the box, a darkness crept in--invading slowly like a sinister ivy.</p>
<p class="p4">( ) ( ) ( )</p>
<p class="p4">Cas felt like he was falling… his heart clenched every time it beat, his stomach felt like it was fighting to escape his vessel, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his face felt hot, his limbs shaky… it was a sensation not dissimilar from the one he’d felt after falling from Heaven, but Cas knew that this feeling was something much more… … <em>human. </em></p>
<p class="p4">He existed in this sickened state for what felt like an unusually long amount of time. He was searching for any kind of context or logic to this memory but no clues presented themselves. He was in what felt like the empty--a vast space of nothingness. What was distinct, though, was the fact that the nothingness around him also permeated his being. Cas felt…well...<em> nothing</em>. The only real feeling inside him was a numbing ache; everything else was subdued. It wasn’t the same as soullessness because he was aware that his emotions still <em>existed, </em>they just weren’t… relevant. The trace amounts of anger or shock or happiness were too sparse to be acknowledged, let alone valued. Cas had not experienced a feeling quite like this before but he was sure, above all, that he detested it.</p>
<p class="p1">Emerging from the encompassing blackness was a lifeless figure laid <span class="s3">reverentially on</span> a cot. The angel didn’t have to see the corpse’s face to know that it was Sam. The familiar width of the shoulders and cut of the hips, the length of the neck and the moppy hair were more than adequate identifiers. Something like a bolt of lightning struck the angel and the nothingness that previously consumed him was replaced with agony. Ravaging inside him was a kind of pain more excruciating than anything he’d ever experienced. Along with the emotional fire inside, his external senses were witness to an onslaught of devastating images: Sam crumpling to the dusty ground, eyes rolling back in his head, Sam writhing underneath the vampire’s bite as blood spurted from his artery, Sam breathless in a stagnant pool of his own blood…</p>
<p class="p1">In this space, Sam’s death could not have been more alive.</p>
<p class="p4">Cas, though crippled with devastation, was aware enough to still be looking for Dean. Though events were replaying in the most vivid of detail, Dean was nowhere to be found. Cas recognized all of Sam’s deaths...he was sure that they were legitimate memories--that none of them had been invented. Dean, by all accounts, should be trapped in an endless loop of watching Sam die. If this was the center of the wheel--as Cas was sure it was--then Dean. should. be. here.</p>
<p class="p4">Then where the hell was he?</p>
<p class="p4">Attempting the most basic of tactics, Cas called out to him.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean? Dean, are you here?”</p>
<p class="p4">Much to Castiel’s relief, a much-missed voice responded.</p>
<p class="p4">“...Cas?”</p>
<p class="p4">Though the angel heard him, Dean was still invisible.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean, where are you?”</p>
<p class="p4">“I can’t...I can’t get to him...he’s calling for me and I can’t...Cas, I just left him there.”</p>
<p class="p4">Dean’s voice broke and it took Castiel more time to process what the hunter was referencing.</p>
<p class="p4">“He--he needs me, Cas, and I can’t get to him in time. I’m running and running and it’s like there’s a wall and he can’t see me and he doesn’t know I’m here...He thinks I just <em>left him there.</em> I promised I’d come back for him. Cas, I can’t break that promise.”</p>
<p class="p4">Cas, though his heart was breaking, was relieved when Dean’s form finally emerged. From what the man had said, Cas concluded that Dean’s ultimate hell was not just watching Sam die, but not being with him. Dean was forced to watch his brother die alone. Not only that, but he wasn’t able to ever reach his corpse. In Dean’s mind, Sam had been left to die over and over and over again, alone, scared, and his body abandoned. Cas didn’t know how to begin piecing Dean back together but he’d made it this far and damned if he wasn’t going to do everything he could.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean, you have to listen to me. Sam is not dead. He is waiting for you to wake up.”</p>
<p class="p4">“Cas, I know this is a dream or something but I can’t snap out of it.”</p>
<p class="p4">“It’s because part of you still believes all this.”</p>
<p class="p4">“What?”</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean, part of you believes that you’ve abandoned Sam--that you’ve let him down.”</p>
<p class="p4">“I couldn’t save him, Cas … I left him alone and--”</p>
<p class="p4">“You have <em>never </em>abandoned Sam. I have been watching you for years, Dean. I’ve learned more about humanity through my brief time with you than I did from a few millennia on Earth. You two may have fought and bled and argued and gone your separate ways, but you have <em>never </em>failed him.”</p>
<p class="p4">“I have, Cas. That’s just the way it is. I have to live with that.”</p>
<p class="p4">“The only way you’ll be failing him is by letting this destroy you. Dean, I have been inside your head trying to piece you back together. Most of what defines you is too painful for me to begin to comprehend. I don’t think you will ever understand how strong you truly are. But I do. And Sam does.”</p>
<p class="p4">Cas took a breath.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean. Poughkeepsie.”</p>
<p class="p4">In some kind of horrific act of catharsis, Sam’s dying body saw Dean for the first time. The older brother rushed to the younger’s limp form and cradled him. And then, as if everything had been made right, Sam’s body vanished. Castiel knew that he needed to act quickly; the angel placed his palm on Dean’s forehead and a whirlwind of memories, thoughts, and feelings rearranged themselves.</p>
<p class="p4">The spokes of the wheel finally realigned.</p>
<p class="p4">With a dramatic and sudden intake of breath, Dean awoke from his unconscious state and Cas was relieved to find them both standing in the bunker’s infirmary.</p>
<p class="p4">“Dean!” Sam launched himself beside his now-lucid brother and turned to the angel with a desperate need for confirmation. Instead, Dean eased his worries.</p>
<p class="p4">“I’m good, Sammy. Promise.”</p>
<p class="p4">“You really had us worried there for a while. Let’s not make this a habit, okay?”</p>
<p class="p4">“Yeah. Next time I think I’ll pass on the whack-a-mole.”</p>
<p class="p4">Dean’s gaze broke from Sam to stare at Cas. Saving him the spoken gratitude, Cas was the first to speak.</p>
<p class="p4">“I think we can all agree that today ending will be a huge relief. I’ll leave you two to reorient yourselves…”</p>
<p class="p4">Before Cas made it out the door, Dean interrupted.</p>
<p class="p4">“Hey Cas--thanks for uhh--thanks for...embodying your sermons.”</p>
<p class="p4">Dean smirked but Cas’ heart warmed at the Winchester-brand Thank You. Departing with a nod, the angel left Sam to gaze confused at Dean.</p>
<p class="p4">“And you--” Dean began, “Of all the things to get, you beg Dad for the <em>pink cotton candy?</em>”</p>
<p class="p1">Sammy smiled and Dean’s remaining worries dissipated; the familiar comfort of the bunker, and the familiar comfort of Sam’s presence erasing the echo of distant cries and pleas.</p>
<p class="p1">Dean Winchester, for all the chaos existing within him, was content.</p>
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